


Oh, Will Wonders Ever Cease?

by TheSouthernFalconer



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Background Relationships, Communication, Family Feels, First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Making Out, Meet-Cute, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSouthernFalconer/pseuds/TheSouthernFalconer
Summary: "I willed it. He remembered Asra saying. Did he will this too, this feeling turning him inside-out? The way the castle floors and weight on his shoulders seemed to fall away? Or did Julian will it, himself?"Julian Devorak, Crown Prince of Nevivon, meets a charming stranger in his library. Assumptions are questioned, decisions are complicated, and several kinds of magic ensues.
Relationships: Asra/Julian Devorak, Lucio/Nadia (The Arcana)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 21





	1. The Magician

As the salt-winds swept through the castle halls, the Crown Prince of Nevivon leaned against his chair in the library, letting his eyes fall shut. The hour was late, late enough that Lilinka and the other grandmothers _and_ all the castle-hands would have his ear and hide for staying up so long, but Julian loved this quietude, loved that he could hear the sea break against the salt plains, that if he strained, he could hear the sailor’s songs echoing from the beach, that he could hum along. The Council had never forbidden him from venturing outside the castle, far be it from them that the future King should be shielded from his own subjects- but they always insisted that he did so with a measure of protection. And “protection,” it seemed, often put the people a little on their guard. The castle guards were expressly prohibited from terrorizing the citizens in any untoward manner, but- if it was the golden-armed General who had time in his schedule to accompany him, flashing his gauntlet and laughing boisterously, well. That was a different story. He was _almost_ sure that Lucio meant no harm, but the man always insisted on being right by his side rather than trailing behind, often flying into a rage for absolutely no reason- a flurry of “ _who_ do you think you’re talking to’s” that he knew would put the castle’s reputation in jeopardy. Lilinka and the rest of her Council of Elders did _not_ wisely and fairly maintain the custodyship and rule over the land (that outsiders called the “Pirate Kingdom,”) since the death of his parents in order for the people’s faith in them to be shaken by a jumped-up ex-mercenary with a legendary reputation and the general disposition of a two year old.

Julian took a sip of his coffee- winced, it had gone cold. He knew he only needed to ring for one of the servants to brew him another cup- but he did not want to unsettle anyone, not this deep into the night. So he stretched his long legs beneath the table, picked up his quill from where it had fallen, and tried to bring his attention back to the book he had been reading. It was a guide to basic conversational Prakran. Perhaps he should take a break. The soft melody of the language would have been a delight to navigate, and it _was_ , already, but his emotions had twisted themselves into a knot at the base of his chest. Nestled between the pages of the book lay the letter confirming Dr. Nazali Satrinava’s acceptance of him as their apprentice. It wasn’t a lot, written in a neat, steady hand with only a professional seal to go with it. There was no fuss, either- only a kind but firm direction to address them as Doctor, rather than "Your Highness", and that the favor _would_ be returned. Well, he supposed his mentors at Nevivon _did_ put in a far better word than he thought he’d deserved. He was over the moon when he’d first received the letter, and Lilinka had only sighed- “Well I can’t stop you if that’s what you’ve set your mind on, Ilya. The physicians on Maze’s deck tell me there’s noone better to train under- their reputation precedes them, and I’m not going to stop you from following a dream that’s in your reach.” He had to return, of course. Lilinka had implied that it had to be sooner rather than later, though she knew, in the end, it’d be later than what she’d like and sooner that what Julian would want- he had to return to finish his preparations here and take the throne as soon as the Council deems him ready.

He stifled a wince at the thought. He loved learning, loved the politics and philosophy and geography lessons and accompanying his grandmothers on diplomatic visits- but he could never, and he doubted if he would ever- see himself as King. He knew that the Crown was an eventual inevitability, he’d known it ever since he was born, known it even before his parents had been washed away in the shipwreck that _still_ gave him nightmares he’d wake up screaming from. But the closer he got to it,( or rather, the taller, relentlessly taller that he’d grown), he found he couldn’t bring himself to imagine taking his place on the throne. He couldn’t imagine doing half or even a quarter of the wonderful things Lilinka had been accomplishing, and the longer he went, the heavier that inevitable, so-far metaphorical crown felt on his head. He wasn’t ready. Would never be ready. Or enough. (Or maybe he didn’t _want_ it, never wanted it, never found the wonder in it or could respect it like he should be respecting it- Julian felt ashamed, so ashamed.) “Don’t run yourself ragged, Ilya,” Grandmother Katya had warned him, when he’d decided to apprentice under his mentors here in Nevivon. But he didn’t mind, not at all. He remembered the smile his first real patient- an old sailor- had given him when he’d replaced her rotten tooth with a brand-new, golden one. For the first time, he’d looked at his hands- skinny, his fingers awkwardly long, and felt like they would do. His mentor, a shy, gentle ship physician who called himself Sergey, had patted him on the back- “you’ve got a surgeon’s hands, Your High- er- Julian,” he’d said, “sure as death and taxes.” If it ran him a little ragged, if it did leave his convictions torn and raw, well- the feeling he’d had then, was worth all of it.

And then there was Pasha. The date of his departure to Prakra drew steadily nearer, and he still hadn’t told his sister that he intended to go. The Grandmothers had advised him that Pasha needed to hear the news from himself- and Julian agreed. He’d always sensed that she felt horribly left out when he kept things from her. He did not blame her- there were only so many snide heir- and-the-spare comments the nobles could sneak in before they stopped rolling off her back (or the offender gets a taste of her deadly slingshot aim). Breaking her heart with the news of his departure _now_ , would be far better in the long run, than leaving a note behind on her pillowcase- but Julian couldn’t, try as he might, he _couldn’t_ muster up the courage to see the look on her face when he’d tell her he’d be leaving her behind. They’d never been apart for long- it was the promise he’d mumbled into her hair when she choked and cried in his arms when he’d mustered all his feeble strength to get them out of torn-up ship, paddling blindly to the first swimming body he could find. “I’ve got you,” he’d promised, swinging her up on the seal’s slick body as he would his tired arms around another one. “Ilya’s got you, Pasha, it’s okay now, I’ve got you.”

Lilinka had told him that Pasha was strong- and she was- it wasn’t for nothing that Mazelinka was speaking about training her to become Admiral, but he knew she’d cry when he told her, and he knew he’d have nothing to say for himself, and he couldn’t do it, but he also knew he had to. It’d hurt her more if he just up and left, and he wouldn’t forgive himself for hurting her like that. He doubted if he’d forgive himself for leaving her behind in the first place. It was his job to _not_ make Pasha cry, and it was his job to keep her safe and happy, not the other way around, and certainly not the opposite.

Oh, damn it all, he’s lost focus again. The library was wonderful, but it had a way of winding him up with thoughts until he caved and began to choke-

_Wait._

His hands flew to his throat. That’s- not Pasha. He broke out in cold sweat as his fingers brushed against _scales._ Still trying to draw a ragged breath, wincing as his chest heaved- he looked down- when did this thing get in here? Julian tried to cry out for help, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the walls, but before a squeaky cry could make its way out of his mouth, the python loosened her grip abruptly, sending him toppling back from the chair he was seated on. In a lucky second he caught himself from falling clean over, and he wheezed, still massaging his throat, stepping up quickly to let the snake pass when she made for him again, this time aiming to coil around his legs.

“No, no, no, no-“ he didn’t want to ring for a servant, but if that’s how she was going to be-

“En g-garde, s-nake”- he stammered, leaning against a bookshelf and shaking his leg uselessly. “The window’s that way-“ he pointed to it.

The snake didn’t seem like she was going to let go. She wound a little tighter, giving a squeeze to his calf and flicking out her tongue, and he shook his leg again, harder this time, making her gently boop her head against his knee and coil _even_ tighter.

“What do you _want_ from me?” he cried, distressed.

“Faust?”

Julian turned around to the sound of the voice, and he sensed the python shifting against his leg, and then loosening, letting him go with a hiss. “Faust!” The soft voice again, and a colourful figure cut in lightly through the bookshelves. Julian saw a flash of snow white hair and the flutter of a long red pashmina scarf as the stranger bent down to let the snake- _willingly_ \- slither up his arm to wind around his shoulder. He straightened, and before he could open his mouth, a guard poked his head between the shelves, looking rather frazzled.

“Your Highness, is everything-“

“Yes, Yes,” Julian said quickly, smiling politely. “Er- thank you, everything’s alright here.”

“I see.” The guard eyed Julian warily where he was still plastered against a bookshelf. He maneuvered himself back to a dignified position, and inclined his head in what he hoped looked like confidence. “Alright, Your Highness.” The guard looked bemused as he bowed lightly, and left.

The stranger’s eyes, (brilliant amethyst- he’s never seen eyes like those in these parts), widened, and then his expression turned pained. “Oh no, I’m so sorry-“

Julian waved his hand frantically. “Oh, no, it’s alright,” he said, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. “The ah- snake must have mistaken me for a tree. Trust me when I say, she wouldn’t have been the first one.” The stranger laughed at that, high and unrestrained, and it made Julian smile in return. “No, no, Faust does it to people she’s taken a liking to.” His lips twitched playfully. “Or people whom she can startle easily,” he eyed Julian in a way that made his palms sweat. “But usually, those are the same people, so-“ he shrugged, “I’ll have a talk with her, but she really didn’t mean any offense, Your High-“

Julian shook his head, “No, no, er- y-you don’t have t-t-t-“ he clicked his tongue. _Breathe, Ilya. Pause, slow down._ The stranger still waited patiently before him, not a hint of annoyance on his face. It’s because he has to, a mean voice in his head reminded him. You’re making him wait. He took a deep, calming breath. “No, you uh, don’t have to call me that.” He managed, _finally._

“Oh, alright,” The stranger broke into another sweet smile. “I’m Asra. It’s nice to meet you, Ilya.” He paused at Julian’s stricken expression. “You _are_ Ilya, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Julian straightened, offering him a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Asra, please, er- take a seat. I was just wondering how-“

“I met your sister, earlier.” Asra gave his hand a warm shake, and settled comfortably on the chair opposite to Julian, kicking off his sandals and crossing his legs on the seat. In the warmth of the library’s fire, he unwound his long scarf and tossed it carelessly over the chair. He wore a bronze choker, and his pale lashes cast shifting shadows on his face in the firelight. Faust slithered down from his shoulder to drape herself over his lap. She lifted her head and fixed Julian with a crimson gaze. Now that the circumstances were less- perilous, the python didn’t look vicious at all, only playful, and Julian felt a little like an idiot for making a fuss of it in the first place. “You’ve met Pasha?” He asked, and Asra nodded.

“Yes, she wanted to learn a few tricks from me.”

“T-tricks?” Julian regarded his impish smile, wondering what kind of prankster would be deemed fit to give _Pasha_ lessons in mischief. “Hm,” Asra leaned forward, cradling his chin in his palm. “She did tell me you were a little nervous around magic.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Julian, truthfully. He had been curious, and he had tried, in vain, to read the wooly texts on magical arts that he could find. But the curiosity had been quickly replaced by disdain- most of it was a load of hogwash- smokescreens, tea leaves and cards that tell the future, unsettling activities with blood that seemed- unhygienic, to say the least. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would associate with the person who sat before him, dressed in a tunic of many colors and tapping a long finger gently against his cheek with playful eyes. Hells, what _had_ he been teaching Pasha?

The concern must have shown on his face. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ve only been teaching the Princess a few useful water tricks. Water responds best to my magic,” he said, leaning back. “The seawater and salts here are incredible for a lot of rituals I’ve been meaning to try.”

Julian tried very hard not to look skeptical. The only “rituals” he thought would benefit from the wonderful sea salts of the plains were of the bathtime variety, as far as he was concerned. But Asra looked clever, confident and passionate about this, and Julian didn’t think he knew enough to argue. “Is that why you made the journey here?” he asked, trying to place Asra’s accent. He nodded. “It’s my first time in Nevivon.” When he smiled, a dimple flashed on his left cheek. Julian wanted to reach out and put his finger to it. “Mazelinka was kind enough to spare a spot on her ship from Vesuvia for a few services, and put me up here when she weighed anchor. She’s incredible. ”

Julian grinned at that, fond and proud. “She’s the best,” he said, sincerely. “There’s never been a better Captain under the Black sails, and there never will be. Well,” he paused, “Pasha, maybe. But we’ve got to wait a good few years ‘til she takes to the sea.”

Asra hummed thoughtfully. “She’s a phenomenal magician too. I’ve never seen anyone with such instincts for green magic.”

Julian’s mouth hung open. “Asra, you must be mistaken. Maze’s no magician. I’ve _never_ seen her perform witch- ah- magic.”

Asra frowned. “You haven’t had any of her sleeping-brews then? You should-“

“Of course I have!” He said, a touch too indignantly. He lowered his voice, ashamed for raising it, but Asra only kept looking at him inscrutably. “I have, had them that is. But that’s no magic, is it?”

Asra did not answer his question. He only drew his chair closer. “What do you think magic is, Ilya?” he asked, instead.

Julian wondered for a moment if he’d offended him. But he only looked- eager, listening, if anything. Suddenly, he felt at a loss. He didn’t really have anything to say that would sustain Asra’s interest. Now that he _was_ waiting for an answer, Julian decided to be honest. “Well, there aren’t sleeping brews, as much as there’s-“ he gestured distastefully at nothing, “smoke, and strange noises, and _blood.”_ He saw Asra cover his mouth with his hand, stifling a laugh. Julian felt oddly mournful. He wanted to hear him laugh again, even if it was at his own expense.

“Are you afraid of blood?” He asked.

“No, of course not. I’m - a doctor-in-training.”

“Well,” again that mischievous quirk of his mouth. “I don’t know a lot about _medicine,_ ” he frowned, “but don’t you have them too- smoke, strange noises, and a _lot_ more of blood?”

“We do,” he paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, “but we have _method_ to it. There are steps that we take, so that something works, and if it doesn’t, we try something else until it does. Does that-“ he faltered, “-make sense?”

Asra nodded slowly. “Of course, but that’s how I see magic too. Every ritual and every spell has a method to it, and if it doesn’t work,” he absently stroked Faust’s head, “we try something else.”

Julian stayed quiet, mulling it over.

“Besides,” Asra went on, “magic doesn’t have to be what you mentioned, at all. In fact, most of magic isn’t that at all.” He reached out with his hands, and then pulled back. “Your coffee’s gone cold, hasn’t it?” Julian was startled- he’d completely forgotten the cup on the table. “Oh, er- it’s not a problem.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “But, may I? I promise there wouldn’t be anything- scary. It’s a simple, quick spell.”

Julian fidgeted in his chair, taking in the eagerness in Asra’s eyes, and he found he couldn’t refuse. He nodded, gripping the edge of his seat, and subtly leaning back, away from the cup. Asra only smirked, and touched his palms to the cup. When Julian found the nerve to look, the cup remained exactly the same under Asra’s hands. He noticed a bracelet dangling from his wrist, an intricately carved figurine of a fox, so lovingly detailed that he could see the playful glint in its eye. Asra’s eyes sought his. There was something in that stolen glance, something that made Julian flush.

“The ah- fox, is charming.” Julian supplied, rather pathetically.

Asra inclined his head, his hands still on the cup. “Isn’t it? My best friend back home whittled it out for me- it’s a protective charm- there.” He leaned back, nodding in satisfaction. “Take a sip, Ilya.”

Julian swallowed. “Er-“ He took a deep breath, wincing a little. He didn’t want to appear a coward, though, so he obliged. He yelped the moment he touched the cup. It was _hot,_ and when he peered in, he saw swirls of steam rising from the now-warm beverage. “How did that- _Asra_?”

“I willed it. Altering temperature is a useful, simple spell. I could teach you, if you want.”

Julian did not answer, but he took a gulp of the coffee, humming at the pleasant heat. “Oh that _is_ better,” he agreed. “That _is_ a useful bit of sorcery, I’ll admit.”

“See?” Asra looked bright and happy at having proven his point. “Magic could be as simple as that, and just that useful. Only a means of subtly shifting our surroundings to meet our needs. ” Julian nodded again, taking another sip of the coffee. It still sounded a little wooly to him, but he was prepared to admit he’d been wrong.

“All I know is that I don’t know.” He said, smiling. “And that hot coffee tastes infinitely better than cold.”

“If you want to learn a spell or two, you could always ask,” Asra said cheerfully. “And maybe I can learn a few things from you too.”

Julian sputtered, nearly spitting out his coffee. “Wh-what would _you_ have to learn from _me_?”

Asra shrugged, “well, what you’ve been doing now, for instance-“ he leaned over to take a look at the books before him. “Is that Prakran?” he asked, squinting.

“Y-yes.” Julian’s hands instinctively flew to the letter of folded within the book. “For my studies.”

Asra blinked. “You’re going to Prakra? Is it a-“ he gestured vaguely, “Prince visit?”

Julian shook his head. “I’m uh-going to further my studies in medicine- by taking an apprenticeship, that is.”

Asra’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s- interesting.” He smiled encouragingly. “You’re taking journeys to learn, too- the Princess never mentioned it.”

Julian flushed again, uncomfortably, and wrung his fingers in his lap. “That’s because I-I- haven’t mentioned it- t- to her.”

“Oh,” Asra did not look disapproving the way Lilinka did, only a little confused. “Well- I always get scolded when I go off without telling anyone,” he said sheepishly. “I just don’t seem to remember.”

“I _do_ remember.” Julian said. “I-“ he sighed. “Pasha and I have never been apart for long.” He admitted. “My parents died in a shipwreck, the storm of the century, you might have heard-“ A flash of understanding in Asra’s eyes, but Julian went on before he could say anything. “I’d vowed to look after her since, and-“ he splayed his palms helplessly, “she’d feel left behind, and I don’t want her to. It puts me off telling her.”

Asra was silent for a few moments, clinking his fingers against the ceramic of the coffee cup. Then he smiled softly. “I don’t know, Ilya, your sister holds well on her own.”

“I _do_ know that-“

“Don’t you think she’d feel worse if she felt like you didn’t acknowledge that she had to know? My friend-“ he looked away again, fidgeting with the wooden fox around his wrist. “He gets upset when I don’t tell him where I’m going, or for how long. He said missing me was something he’d quickly get through, but keeping too many secrets..” he trailed off, and then shrugged, then shook his head. “I’ve only met the Princess once, but I think she’d be alright.”

Julian chuckled ruefully. “Ah, well. She’s always called me an overprotective older brother.”

“Does she, now?” Asra regarded him. “I think it’s a good thing, to protect the people we love,” he was speaking softer now, almost as though to himself. “Only, we should know the when and where of it, I guess.”

Then he sighed. “When I feel confused, and when I can’t think straight, I always take a walk.” He told Julian. “Getting your feet on the ground and moving somewhere always helps me see something with new eyes.” He stood up, gathering his scarf and winding it back around himself. “Do you maybe-“ his eyes lowered, fluttering. Julian’s heart skipped a beat, “want to take a walk?”

“Oh-“ he cursed his pale complexion for betraying the heat gathering in his face. “Sure, of course, I don’t see- sure.” When he was out of mumbled affirmatives, Julian stood up, carefully pocketing the letter, and closing his books. Then he shrugged himself back into the jacket lying over his chair, and pulled on his leather gloves.

Out of sheer habit, he extended his hand, and flushed even deeper when Asra took it without hesitation. Faust slithered comfortably around Asra’s shoulders, fixing Julian with a sly stare.

“To the Castle gardens, then.” Julian’s voice, mercifully, did not break, even as Asra’s hands stayed in his, and his body stood inches away from his.

Outside the warmth of the library’s fireplace, the winds had brought in a draught. He noticed how Asra shivered a little in his tunic, and Julian cursed internally. Where are his _manners_?

He immediately shrugged out of his jacket, and draped it around Asra.

“Oh,”

Julian held his breath. The dark of his jacket clashed bizarrely with the bright colors of his tunics and scarves. Faust poked her head out from the collar, looking rather snug. Asra was drowning in it, and the sleeves hung off him when he put his hands through them. But there was a deep, beautiful blush on his face running all the way to his ears, and his lips were parted in pleasant surprise.

“Thank you,” he whispered, shyly taking Julian’s hand again. His palm nestled into Julian’s gloved ones, and his frame sunk into his coat, almost as though he was nuzzling into an embrace. Julian’s heart jumped to his throat, and he was sure he was breathing too loud. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a guard give them a curious smile.

There was a small smile playing on Asra’s lips, and he inched a little closer to Julian so that they touched, just barely.

Well.

 _I willed it._ He remembered Asra saying. Did he will _this_ too, this feeling turning him inside-out? The way the castle floors and weight on his shoulders seemed to fall away? Or did _he_ will it, himself?

He supposed _that_ was its own kind of magic. _That,_ he found he could believe in.


	2. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has the longest day.

It was nearly dawn. Julian could feel it in his toes (“How? What does it feel like, Ilya?”) as they lounged languidly on the stone steps from a gazebo leading out to the garden. The guards gave them fleeting looks before settling back into their posts- they were largely out of eyeshot but not out of earshot. Besides, it was not unusual to see the Crown Prince wandering about at odd hours, after all, despite the tongue lashing and lecture he was sure to receive later on in the day. Asra buried his toes in the white sand, letting Faust drape herself over him like a long, heavy purple scarf. They’d been pacing the gardens, swapping tales and legends until their feet were sore. Asra had listened with rapt attention to the Nevivic seafarer’s legends, mumbling in disappointment that he hadn’t yet come across a siren in his travels. He had his own share of odd adventures- Julian doubted the credibility of the unicorn’s origins- it _could_ have been a horse with a birth defect- but the desert land-sharks sounded _fascinating_ \- he _has_ to make it a point to seek those out the next time he visited Zadith. He was on the verge of drifting off, right there on the stone steps with his fingers still loosely laced with Asra’s, when his companion sat up abruptly. “Do you want me to read your cards?”

Julian had had his fortune told before- he’d been reassured by many a sailors’ parrot that his reign would be one of peace and prosperity. A self-proclaimed seer at the Palace had swirled tea leaf-dregs around before clicking their tongue and muttering “why don’t I see you on the throne?” He’d found them entertaining, if only a little unsettling, making him whisper a prayer to the sea gods before he fell asleep at night. He had no real faith in the business of cards, he found the whole thing unnecessarily ominous, but Asra looked so eager, bright with curiosity, that he nodded anyway. “This should be interesting,” he chuckled nervously, sitting upright as Asra reached into his pockets to unravel a deck of cards. Asra hummed, completely serious, glancing at him as he shuffled the cards in his hands. “Of course, every reading is.” He set the cards down in three sets. “Alright, Ilya.”

He murmured quiet instructions to _cut, focus, listen_ \- and Julian complied, an odd shiver running through him, making him a little light-headed. Maybe it was Asra’s voice- soft and confident, or the way his hands skimmed his choker and played with his scarves and tapped his chin thoughtfully as he spoke, or maybe there was just something- something a little addictive in being told, clearly and gently, what to do.

Asra shot him a curious glance when three cards lay between them- turned down so their face remained hidden. “The past, present and future.” He said, tapping each one in turn. He flipped over the first one-

“The Six of Swords.” A small smile. “I guess that’s obvious- a departure on the horizon, leaving home.”

Julian scoffed. “My departure is in the future, now, isn’t it?” He stared at the image on the card- a dragon flapping his wings upward over six swords. Asra looked unperturbed, shrugging. “The past is dynamic.” He said serenely. “The meanings are, too. Your departure _presented_ itself a while ago, perhaps. A home that no longer was-hm-“ he suddenly looked away, watching Faust slither down the steps into the sand as though seeing something else. “They spoke to me. They say a home has been outgrown-“ Julian swallowed. “They _say_?” He asked, trying to mask his conflict with incredulity. Asra nodded, still that faraway look in his eyes, “Yes, they say.” He said simply. Clearer now- “When they spoke to me, they said that a home has been outgrown. Had been, for a while.”

With a rather aggressive wave of skepticism he tried to crush the coils of cold dread forming in the pit of his stomach. They _say_ , it seemed. A likely story. He dared to glance at the card again, and it continued to just _be_ there- innocuous and definitely silent. Perhaps it was one of those strange fortune teller’s rituals- the catchy turns of phrases that make them sound that much more ominous, a dash of showmanship- to be sure, like “the Gods have spoken,” or “why don’t I see you on the throne?”- he’s no stranger to its appeal either. Asra flipped over the next card.

“The Two of Swords.” Another dragon, this time- blind, caught between a diagonal of two swords. Asra fell silent again, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Long white lashes gleamed silver in the moonlight, and his snowy curls sifted like water through his fingers when Asra ran a hand through them. Julian watched him, mesmerized, as his eyes opened, suddenly quizzical- “Ilya?”

“Oh,er-“ Julian averted his gaze, suddenly ashamed. He’d been staring- like a complete and utter _creep_ \- who gave him the _liberty_ -

“An impossible choice- you’re torn between two options, both plausible, both of which would hurt somehow-“

Oh, _wasn’t_ he? After all the Council had done for him, provide for him in every capacity, make sure he was beloved and happy, prepare him for _years_ to take his rightful place- and he had to be _selfish_ , and only think of himself- to even consider what he dared to imagine sometimes- _leaving forever_ , cutting himself loose, leaving Pasha behind, was treason, and he knew it. Lilinka had never been as torn as he was. She had taken it all in stride, her and all the Grandmothers- the Council falling calmly, neatly into place the moment Mazelinka had taken them back home from the washed-up ruins. He dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from shaking. Some King he would be. 

“…Ilya? Are you listening?”

“Hm?”

Asra fell silent, still tracing the image on the card with restless fingers. A small frown marred his features.

Inattentive, as always. How could a King be so scatterbrained? Quickly, he collected himself. “Of course, I was uh, thinking- two of swords, eh? An impossible choice. I suppose that’s fair enough, don’t you think? You don’t suppose they have uh, any advice on that front?” He asked, feeling rather stupid. Asra sniffed. “That you must cut your losses, and there are no right answers.”

Julian disagreed. There _was_ a right answer- go now, speak to Pasha about his intention to leave, finish his apprenticeship in Prakra, get his taste for carefree adventure while the Council permitted, and come back safe and sound and grown and ready to take his place- not shaking and sweating at the sight of his mother’s crown in a glass box high above the throne- opals and pearls twinkling ominously whenever he’d made the mistake of looking. _That_ , he knew without a doubt, was the right thing to do. It made him feel a strange sort of hollow, as though the flesh and blood were being drained of him- what had Asra told him, at the library?

That to move would clear his mind, put things in perspective. Would Asra understand, Asra who’d taken up on a pirate ship on a whim, searching for salts and strange rituals? Who had people waiting for him, back in Vesuvia at his journey’s end, with whittled wooden trinkets to welcome him back?

How do you get them to forgive you for what you choose? How far is too far of a move? How long does a journey take before you lose the taste for home? What do you do when you find too much of yourself? It sounded ridiculous to his own ears.

_A home has been outgrown. Had been, for a while._

But Asra did not elaborate any further. Keeping his eyes on Julian, he flipped over the last card.

“The Hanged Man.” A raven, suspended upside down in mid-air, his wings held aloft. Julian felt goosebumps erupt across his skin- a cold sweat broke out at his temples. An image flashed through his memory- nothing at all but a strange trick of his imagination- a red-wrought swamp, vines erupting across its perimeter, a memory of a distant dream. Asra’s voice floated back to him as though from a great distance. “The Hanged Man wants you to know-“

And then another voice, loud and clear and frighteningly familiar, the words thundering through him, rocking him over like a stormy sea-

“ _Julian. Let go.”_

“Stop that!” Julian cried, knocking the card away from in front of him. The terrible raven flew down the steps to land face down on the sand, and Julian fell back against his elbows, inching desperately away from the rest of the deck. A guard paused in his patrol to look over at him in concern, and he waved him off- too brusquely. He’d have to apologize for it later.

Asra’s eyes widened in shock and hurt, and Julian shook his head, _still_ crawling away like a fool. But he couldn’t bear to see him that way, so he tried to pull the words out through gritted teeth. “I-I-I-“ _Damn_ it all. He gripped at the roots of his auburn hair, trying to ground himself enough to make the damned words come, and Asra leaned over, the hurt on his face replaced with concern. “Ilya?”

“S-s-top m-m-aking them t-talk.” Julian stammered. Asra blinked, drawing closer to him, hands hovering above his shoulders, but never quite touching him. “I’m- “ he let out a breath, and sank down, looking astonished- “did the cards speak to you?”

“ _No!_ ” He was inching away again, inexplicably shielding his face with his hands- “Don’t do it again-“

“Ilya.”

Asra’s hands were on his again, gripping his wrists, lowering them gently. The distance had evaporated from his violet eyes, and Julian realized vaguely that he’d missed this- that he didn’t like the look Asra wore when he’d read the cards- a strange mix of cold and elsewhere that he didn’t know how to crack, or where to follow him to. The easy confidence when he’d warmed over Julian’s coffee was one thing, and _that_ had been another- the one he could imagine getting accustomed to, if only warily, and the other-

Asra was pulling him upright, slowly, fingers steadying at his wrist. If Julian tugs him, only a little, he’d fall right into his arms. His heart hammered up a storm, only this time from something other than terror. He noticed the cards were gone- had he enchanted them away, or only picked them up with nimble fingers while Julian was blinded by fear? Now that the nightmarish raven was safely out of sight, Julian felt excruciatingly embarrassed. Ugh. Some impression he was making. He didn’t meet Asra’s eyes for a while, even as he felt his breathing ease with every stroke against the back of his palm. His heart- he was discovering that his heart never really let up around Asra- there was always something there- intrigue or curiosity or eagerness or excitement or fear- that kept it on its toes. “Are you alright?” Asra asked, finally, his voice whisper-soft and soothing. Oh, he’d missed this- so much, even though the reading hadn’t been long, by any means, thanks to Julian’s utter _rudeness_ , even though he’d only just _met_ Asra- he’d missed this-

Julian cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry,” he grimaced at how his voice croaked unattractively. “No.” Asra sounded glum. “I didn’t mean to scare you, not like that.” He took a deep breath. “If the cards-“ he caught himself- “it’s nothing to be scared of- the cards - you’re only reading them. Think of it like reading a book-“ he explained. “The words sounding out in your head, even when you read silently. If you’ve heard anything, that’s all it is.”

“But-“

_That didn’t sound like me._

_Those weren’t my own words._

_That wasn’t my voice, but it was familiar._

Nonsense. Pasha was right. He _was_ far too superstitious.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, rubbing his free hand across his face with a sigh. “I didn’t want to- er- interrupt.”

Asra clicked his tongue dismissively. But Julian could sense his quiet disappointment- he’d wanted to share something with him, vaguely tricksy fortune telling or not, and Julian had effectively run out, screaming and wailing no less, from what he clearly held dear to his heart. Without even the tact or understanding to _listen_ to Asra, or at the very least, wait till he finished speaking. “I think I prefer the coffee-tricks.” He tried, relishing in the way the light frost melted away from Asra’s expression, the playfulness returning.  
“Really?” he asked, laughing when Julian nodded. “I’m glad. We’ll stick to that, then.”

They sat beside each other in silence, their knees knocking against each other. A breath, and then Asra slowly began to lean against the prince, sinking lower until his fluffy head rested against Julian’s bony shoulders. Julian froze, gulping. _These_ were not lessons he’d taken- _formally,_ only gathered in bits and pieces from drunken sailors and poems and romance novels that left him tingling all over- surely there was a line to recite here, something about the stars and the moonlight, surely there were phrases in _one_ of the seven languages he knew that did justice to the way his warm breath felt against Julian’s skin- he was getting ahead of himself. The first red light of dawn was breaking, and he felt compelled to see it in Asra’s eyes. Julian blushed, suppressing a groan. What on earth was he thinking of? He was still ramrod straight against Asra, flushing and swallowing like a lunatic. He forced himself to relax, and then let his arm wrap slowly, slowly over Asra’s waist, turning an even deeper shade of red at the content noise that left the magician’s throat. He could feel the cool of his bronze choker press through his shirt. Julian shivered a little.

“A-Asra-“ His heart was twisting itself into knots.

“Hm?” Asra drew away a little, and Julian already regretted disturbing the warmth. A light tug at his wrist and they were face to face- he could see the rise and fall of the magician’s chest, the dusting of red against his cheeks- Julian’s eyes fluttered shut when Asra tucked a strand of auburn hair behind his ear, his nerves singing beneath his touch.

“You’re very- you’re-“ his breath caught in his throat when Asra’s hand trailed down his cheek.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, looking not very sorry at all. “I’ll let you finish.”

_Beautiful._

_Fascinating._

_Kind._

_Warm._

“-Baffling.”

_Shit._

Asra startled, and Julian muttered a Neviv curse under his breath, aimed at himself and his _stupid_ gangly awkward-

And then the magician was laughing, covering his mouth with his hand, clutching his sides and gasping for breath. Julian never got to make his apology, or start over, before Asra threw his arms around his neck, and pulled him closer. “Oh, Ilya,” he giggled, his eyes shining. “Oh, you’re adorable!”

“Hah- Heh-“ Julian squirmed under the smile in those eyes. _Adorable_? Then, before he could chicken out or think twice, enraptured, the arms around his neck filling him with fear and courage in equal measure-

“Could I kiss you?”

Asra’s breath caught in his throat, and Julian swore again- he was a guest of the _Palace_ , this wasn’t-

“I only mean- I don’t- “ he tried to pull away, he owed too many apologies already, he might as well get one right- but Asra held him in place, meeting his eyes, his cheeks crimson and his gaze shy- “Yes.”

“Y-y-yes?”

Asra hummed. “Yes, you uh-“ He cast his eyes down, blinking rapidly. Julian found the gesture so endearing that he found himself suddenly boldened. “Yes?” he asked again, reaching his hand to tilt Asra’s chin up- _was this how they did it?_ Asra smiled. “Yes.” Before Julian could lose his nerve again, Asra was reaching up, bringing him lower by his neck, and he closed his eyes and let himself be guided, his mouth dry and his lips parting in anticipation, feeling Asra’s heart race where they were flush chest-to-chest-

A graze of their lips, soft and strange and electric, fleeting, and when they parted, Julian drew Asra closer again, awkwardly trying to tilt his head to avoid their noses from bumping, ready for more, when-

A sharp insistent hoot of an owl and-

“ _Help!”_

They broke apart, flushed from head to toe, panting. “What the-“

There was a clatter as the patrols abandoned their posts-

“I need to-“ Julian scrambled to his feet, and Asra followed.

“ _Help,_ please!” 

They didn’t have to look very far. Two figures were staggering down the cobbled paths leading up to one of the Palace’s entrances. They must have come taken the shortcut right from the beach, which means they cannot be commoners, and oh-

Julian rushed to them, Asra on his heels, as two patrolling guards surrounded the newcomers- an unmistakable flash of gold as the General fell from his companion’s grasp and hit the ground. “Your Highness-“ The guards made way as he approached.

Lucio was on his back, drenched to the bone, shivering on the sand. He heard Asra gasp at the wound on thigh, bleeding through the cloth tied there to stem the bleeding. “J-Jules,” he gasped, the bastard still trying to smile, “It- it’s just a flesh wound.” A guard made to swoop down to pick up the General, and Julian held up a hand. “You won’t get to the physician’s chambers in time, don’t move him now, I’ll need to stop the bleeding. Are you hurt?” He asked the stranger beside them, trembling in their hooded cloak. They shook their head. Without wasting a second, he tugged his gloves back on, sank to the ground and got to work.

He felt the ground steady beneath him, his mind clear, as he ripped at the clothing around Lucio’s wound, tried to stem the bleeding. Two large deep bite marks told him what he needed to know. “Vampire eels,” he muttered, and Lucio let out a strangled sound. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” A shake of the head. Julian asked no further questions, but murmured an apology when Lucio tensed and gasped as he pulled out the remnants of the eels’ tooth and tended to him. He noticed nothing else, only remembered that Asra was beside him when Julian tried to rip off his own shirt for a better bandage and he timidly extended his scarf.

Lucio was nearly faint by the time Julian had stilled the bleeding. “It’ll scar,” he said quietly, gripping the General’s shaking hands. “But you’ll be alright.” Lucio scoffed, and his usual bravado heartened Julian, though he wasn’t ever going to admit it. “I wasn’t worried, at _all._ Look at me, Jules, I’m tough as nails. Ha! See? I told you I’ll be fine-“

“It was a pointless endeavor.” The strange voice jolted Julian out of focus. He ‘d completely forgotten about Lucio’s companion. She did not let the hood fall away from her cloak, but lifted her face to glare at the General.

“What are you talking about?” Lucio sounded petulant. “I got your thingy, see?” He lifted his bloodied gauntlet. A single emerald brooch was cradled in the golden palm, slick with blood but otherwise unbroken. The stranger made a sound of frustration. “You’ve _endangered_ yourself- if it were that important I was _perfectly_ capable of-“  
“Aw, Nadia,” he smiled through a wince, “It’s sweet of you to worry about me, but I’m fine, see?” The grin widened, and he reached towards the stranger, and then fell back down with an “ouch.” Julian shook his head. “Take him up now,” he told the guards beside him, rolling his eyes at Lucio’s protests (“I’m _fine,_ I haven’t lost a fight in my _life_ , I’ll have you know-“), as two of them hauled him up, narrowly avoiding the sharp edges of his arm, and made for the castle. Julian sighed, and sat back against the sand, finally taking account of his surroundings. The day had broken, it seemed. He could hear the distant sounds of castle hands calling to each other, a flurry of activity as Lucio was led inside. Lucio’s companion bowed courteously to him, making as though she were about to leave.“Wait,” he told her, Princely etiquette setting in. “Please, come inside,” he looked her over again, “You’re soaked in that cloak, you should at least dry off a little.” He smiled warmly. “Besides, you seem to have saved the General’s life, and that is-.”

“Your Highness,” she tilted her head, raising crimson eyes to meet his. “Your kindness is never taken lightly, but I assure you, I prefer to make myself scarce-“ She spoke in flawless Neviv, but he could tell that she was no native, and despite the distinct lack of telling finery, she was no commoner, either. She picked up the emerald brooch that Lucio had dropped in the sand, and rubbed it against her cloak with a sigh. “I am afraid I may have something to do with it. We were- speaking, at the beach, and when this brooch was washed to the sea, taken by a mercreature with a penchant for shiny things, no doubt, I made the mistake of mentioning that I loathed to part with it. The next thing I knew,” she huffed, “the General had launched himself headfirst into the ocean, disregarding all my warnings.”

Julian groaned. “Of course he would. It isn’t your fault-“

She shook her head ruefully, opening her mouth again. “Wait!” Asra made a sound of disbelief, coming closer from where he was hesitating behind Julian. “ _Lady Satrinava_?”

_Satrinava?_

The Queen of Prakra had no siblings, which meant-

Julian shot up to his feet, giving her his hand and dipping to a bow, his eyes wide as saucers. “Y-your Highness?”

“No-“

He turned around, waving to the guards again, about to tell them to take her inside, arrange a formal welcome, alert the Council of a royal visit from Prakra- a member of the royal family in _distress,_ his mind racing through protocol, when Nadia caught him by the arm, the look on her face pleading. “No, Your Highness, _no._ ” He faltered at the firm command in her tone. “But- Lilinka-“

“Yes?”

He froze, and slowly turned around to face the Chief of Council. Lilinka stood before him in her bright blue robes and her pearl colored scarf, her weathered hands clasped and her sharp hazel eyes twinkling. Pasha was right beside her, dressed in her training clothes as though she were about to begin her morning practice, cradling her cat to her chest. “L-Lilinka-Pasha- I- er,” Lilinka smiled gently up at him, patted his cheek approvingly, and gestured for him to stand aside. “Heard you patched up the General,” Pasha whispered lightly. “Oh, hey, Asra!” she shot the magician a wide smile. Asra looked as bewildered as Julian felt, even more so, perhaps, by the way he shifted from foot to foot, suddenly unsure. When their eyes met, however, he smiled, small and private. It suffused Julian from head to toe, his heart lurched, and he suddenly felt dizzy.

They’d _kissed._

Nadia Satrinava tensed, as though willing every muscle in her body to not turn around and make a run for it. When the Chief approached her, she unhooked the clasp from her cloak and let her hood fall over her shoulders. Straight, proud features, and a long, _long_ , disheveled braid of tyrian hair. Before she could drop into a curtsy, Lilinka offered her a warm hand. “The last time I saw you, you were only a child,” she said. “Welcome to Nevivon, Princess.”

“ _Princess_?” Pasha hissed. Julian shook his head. _Not now._

“Let’s get you inside.”

*

A few hours later, they were gathered in Lilinka’s study. Somewhere between the grounds and the castle, Asra had vanished before Julian could say anything more. The General lay recovering in his chambers, no harm done except for the nasty pain (“His Highness did a most thorough job”, the Castle surgeon had been all praise- Julian felt a twinge of pride lift him up like a pair of wings). Lilinka sighed as she reclined against her chair, her fingers drumming against the tabletop. Julian tried to avoid the proud raven gleaming on the Devorak family crest over Lilinka’s table. He’d best- avoid them for a while- in case his imagination ran amok again. Nadia sat across the Chief of Council, primly holding a cup of tea, in fresh clothes and her hair done anew. Julian saw the emerald brooch pinned smartly against her deep red jacket. There was an aura of quiet dignity around her- Julian imagined her pulling stares wherever she went, clearing the room from the sheer force of her presence. The owl, _Chandra_ , he’d learnt she’d been called, perched lightly on the windowsill, watching the room with pale, piercing eyes.

Pasha was there too, legs crossed and back straight against her chair, her eyes curiously seeking Julian, and her lips quirked into a confused pout. He was glad that the Council had been including her in more and more of their meetings lately- not only to reassure her that she was no less valued, that the role she played was no less necessary than his own, but also for her input- Pasha was cleverer than anyone gave her credit for- she could read any setting in a jiffy, and put on the table _exactly_ the right bait for a tough negotiator to take- if only they’d listened to her more. Julian tried not to slouch, his back aching, and his sleepless night finally catching up to him. He sipped his black coffee and tried not to let his mind wander away to Asra, and failed at that endeavor miserably.

“I’ll have to run everything by the Council, but I want to hear you out in a more informal meeting, first, Princess.” Lilinka said, reaching up to pick her raven-feather quill.

“I understand,” said Nadia. “Thank you, and please, Your Excellency, call me Nadia.”

“How long have you been in Nevivon?” asked Lilinka.

Nadia’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “A- a year.”

Lilinka pushed her glasses down to the bridge of her nose, and gave her the look she fixed Julian with whenever she finds him dawdling around at odd hours or skipping lunch to stay at the library. “You’ve put us in a predicament, Nadia.” She said simply.

Nadia sighed, looking contrite.

“Your family’s been looking for you _everywhere_ \- the Queen herself had written to me, and I’d _promised_ her that I would offer you sanctuary and a safe journey home-“

Horror flashed in Nadia’s eyes, but she did not interject.

“The Empire is one of our closest allies. If it looks like we had not made good on our word-“

“Ma doesn’t have to.” She said, frowning. “I’d written to her, telling her that I’m alive, and that they need not look for me, but, as always-“ she trailed off, her lip curled in distaste. She took a discreet sip of her tea. “Your Excellency, please, do not worry on my account- I shall always vouch for my own decisions, and of course, for your hospitality.”

Lilinka smiled faintly. “There’s no doubting your abilities here, Nadia.” She said. “Who’d dare to, after what you’ve been-“ she lowered her voice- “what you’ve been brave enough to do?”

“Well-“ Nadia seemed rather taken aback. “Thank you, Your Excellency. Nevivon has been- kinder than I’d dreamed of,” she said softly. The owl on the windowsill hooted, as though in agreement. “I could not have hoped for a more welcoming home, and since Vesuvia,” she slumped, as though overcome by something unpleasant- only minutely, before straightening again- “since the _sordid_ ordeal in Vesuvia, I have been wandering, solely in search of peace and quiet, and I have come to find it here.”

Vesuvia. Well, _sordid_ had been one word for it- he realized he’d never really asked Asra about it in their conversation- the topic never came up, and Asra hadn’t particularly volunteered information. The prosperous, strategically placed port city state that had once been torn to shreds by a blood-thirsty, warmongering Countex- he remembered the gladness with which Lilinka had announced their death, three years ago. “The new Count’s a sulking bore-“ Mazelinka had gruffed. “But anyone’s better than Vulgora.”

“Is that how you know Asra?” He blurted out, over any exclamation, interjection, expression of gratitude, or clever political opinion he could’ve offered.

Nadia turned to him, and nodded slowly. Pasha frowned, darting a questioning glance. _Later._

“Asra’s parents and I worked together at the Countex’s Court. They were held there as I was- only they were imprisoned- more thoroughly.” A shudder ran through her. “The new Count released them, of course. I am certain that they are reunited, by now.”

 _Imprisoned?_ He’d never- Asra had never mentioned that, either. He remembered the look on his face when he’d mentioned the shipwreck. How long had they been imprisoned? Did Asra grow up an orphan too? Did he have a home? A family to take him in? He’d read that a lot of Vesuvians had lived in abject poverty during the Countex’s reign. Did he grow up starving on the streets? He’d kissed him, _barely_ , just as barely as he knew him. Julian’s throat went dry.

“Oh, to be sure, Nadia did a lot more than just _work_ for them.” Lilinka was beaming now, though her tone remained soft. Nadia gave a rather strained smile in return. Lilinka gave her a searching look. “They’re the Crown Prince and Princess of Nevivon. It’s an open secret among sovereigns, Nadia. They’ll come to know of it, anyway. But I’ll only proceed, now, with your permission.” Nadia was silent. She lifted her teacup to her pursed lips, and placed it back down with an almost imperceptible nod.

“She’s a well known Artificer.” Lilinka told them. “One of the finest this side’s ever seen.”

“..Yes, well.” Nadia laughed a little. “Thank you kindly, Your Excellency. The Countex had practically _beseeched_ my assistance- on the pretext of _fixing the city_ -“ elegant fingers came up to draw air quotes around the phrase, her voice dripping with scorn. “Unwisely, I admit, and desperate to find my independence, I accepted their employ. And upon my arrival-“ she clasped her hands together, twisting them on her lap. “Suffice it to say, I was held against my will- my designs and my- expertise used to further their endless military conquests. It began with one coup, and another, and then a talk of an army to _take over the world-_ “ she rolled her eyes. “It was not only me- of course, physicians, magicians, soldiers, all held in thrall, all held like I was, with honeyed promises and overt threats, and in the case of skilled magicians such as the Alnazars-“ she winced, and did not finish the sentence. Julian’s blood ran hot and cold at once. “I was locked in a dungeon, sealed with magic and left with only my work tools five days before they attempted to invade Venterre. I- the city was dying, I only did what I could.” At that, the scorn seeped out of her, and her face softened with sadness, before it faded too. “When it came down to it, it was not very difficult, at all. Only a sufficiently well-placed flaw in design- combine it with their inattention, and their dependence on magical and mechanical means, and their ridiculously inopportune “flying chariot” went hurtling down.”

Julian’s mouth fell open.

“You _killed_ them?” Pasha’s voice was heavy with admiration.

Nadia smiled sadly. “I would not say so, Your Highness- I only- crafted the circumstances, as it were. It was so easy- I only regret falling into despair- or falling into the wrong kind of despair, and having not acted sooner. Of any member within that Court, only I had the social leverage to attempt a stunt like that and live to tell the tale.”

“We’d always been against your exile.” Lilinka said, making a few notes with her quill. “We understand his intentions but-“

“Wait, you were _exiled_?” Pasha sounded outraged. “For-“

“Being far too desperate to hide my sabotage effectively.” Said Nadia. “The soldiers took heed- it was far too obvious. The Countex had left no heirs of course, and their Court had been long rendered ineffective. Valerius is a good man, of course, if only a little pedantic on written law, and the like, and in securing his legitimacy. Written law had dictated that the Count’s murderess be hung- but he pushed on the grounds of extenuating circumstances so far as to offer me the mercy of exile.”

“It’s not fair,” said Julian. It wasn’t right, nobody deserved to be imprisoned that way- nobody deserved to be forced into a role they hadn’t ever signed up to play- “It’s not fair,”- to be punished for doing the right thing.

“No, Your Highness.” Nadia agreed easily. “It is not.”

Lilinka sat back, inspecting her notes with a frown. “It’s good that you’re here, then, _now,_ in any case- you’ve come to the castle. I could write a letter to Prakra-“

“No-“

“Of course, you could leave by the next ship-“

“No-“

“Or stay at the castle for the next few days and leave when the crown prince leaves for his apprenticeship-“

“Lilinka-“

“Oh! Under Nazali, too-“

He could see the exact moment when Lilinka had realized she’d thought aloud, that she’d said too much. Her words died halfway, and her face paled. Nadia, who had opened her mouth to argue, froze too- the moment had resounded through the room with a silence as loud as an audible crack. For a few seconds, Julian could only hear the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, and then his heart breaking, breaking, when his stone heavy eyes found the useless courage to look at Pasha- her blue eyes wide and wounded and betrayed, her lip quivering, the small, _broken_ sob she let out before she clamped her mouth shut.

“Pasha-“ Lilinka sounded pained. He was furious with her, but he knew it wasn’t her fault. It was his. It was his.

“May I-“ Pasha’s voice was trembling, and he could see her clench her hands into fists by her side.

“Both of you may- Nadia, we’ll take this elsewhere.”

With a flash of the white and orange of her training clothes, Pasha was gone. Julian followed, not too far behind, but he knew how quick and strong she could be when she really didn’t want to be caught. She dashed down the stone hallway, nearly knocking guards off their posts-

“Pasha!” He called out, cursing his voice for cracking. “Pasha, listen please!”

She leaned against a wall, crying too hard to keep running, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, wiping her face on her sleeve. Julian could hear Pepi mewling from behind, plaintive and afraid.

“Pasha, dearest,” he sobbed, tugging at her sleeve, _hating_ himself.

She wrenched herself away from him, whirling around to face him. He crumpled at the sight of her. “Why don’t you-“ she snarled- “tell me _anything_? _Ever?_ ” With one push he was thrown back- “ _Huh?”_

“I w-w-as going t-to tell you, Pasha, I promise-“

“Oh you _were,_ were you?” She laughed derisively, giving him another, milder shove. “When were you going to tell me Ilya? When you were halfway across the world? When you’d already forgotten about me now I that I’m out of your way out of-“ she heaved, gasping between sobs “-out of your mind?”

“Dearest,” he was crying in earnest now, “I’d _never-_ “

“But you _did_!” She wailed. “I bet you told _Asra_ before you told me-“ the way he’d flinched was answer enough for her. “Ilya! Y-you told _everyone_ before you told me- I’m your _sister-_ “

He’d never seen her cry like this- not when she’d fallen from a window and broken both her legs, not when she’d woken up terrified and breathless after the shipwreck, not when she’d climbed to his bed, panicking and sweating from nightmares, not when irksome nobles had cut her down- and _he’d_ done it, to his strong, beautiful baby sister whose love he did _not_ deserve-

“You’re _always_ gonna leave me behind, you _always_ d-do-“ she hiccupped- “You don’t even care about me-“

Julian’s broken heart crumbled into dust. He took a step towards her, his breathing ragged.

“ _No_.” She was backing away from him. “I don’t want to see you right now,” she whimpered. Then she wiped at her face again, and drew herself straighter. “I’m- going to train.” She sniffled. “Mazelinka’s waiting.” She turned around and ran again, and this time Julian stayed, too heartsick and lost to follow.

And then he walked, blindly, shrugging off a vague sound of concern he thought sounded like Lilinka’s voice, he walked past the endless corridors, turning corners at a whim until he realized he was climbing up the stairs to the library again, where he could close himself away- like a fool, like a coward, where he’d met Asra- he didn’t want to think of Asra now, not now, when the voice in his head snapped at him that he’d make him cry too.

He agreed.

His knees gave way, and he banged them on the chair he sank into, where he put his head on the table, knotted his finger in his hair, and cried, cried, _cried_ his wretched his heart on to the wood.

“Ilya-“ he knew the voice, though it was hoarse with sleep. There were another set of hands in his hair, softer, _too_ soft, pressing against his, coaxing them to ease. When he didn’t let up, there were kisses against his damp neck- something whispered, a hand smoothing down his back he wasn’t strong enough to push away- he knew he was saying something, he couldn’t tell in what language. “You don’t have to talk about it.” Asra said. _Asra_ \- and his sobs echoed over the walls again, with the force of his chest caving in. “We can just take a nap here, is that alright? We can do that, hm? Can we do that, Ilya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've all got a long way to go.  
> Also Vulgora's not a demon in this- just- a shitty, shitty human being.


	3. The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There was something to it, he supposed, to take the world as it were, by its natural limitations, and to give yourself to it, to do good by it- protect and help and abide by it. A resignation, but one with a great deal of strength. "

Asra broke the sea’s surface with a gasp, watching the swirling colors around him settle back into the early morning grey. Clumps of seaweed were tangled around his arms, and he shook them off, after taking a whiff of them and finding nothing there of interest. Incense smoke still clung to his hair, mingling with the saltwater. The underwater ritual had gone far better than he’d expected. Drawing upon his newly acquired spell, he let the seawater cradle him. He floated lazily over the waves, shutting his eyes against the morning sun. Maybe he could take a nap here. It felt good, to be adrift like this. He shook his wrist, the charms there clinking against each other. He could feel the steady pull of Muriel’s magic from the wooden charm. It was a different sort of magic from his own- more carefully guarded, much like his friend himself- but also, he supposed, a little more forthcoming in its own way. His friend liked to tease him for his showmanship- but hell, it did buy the bread when he’d needed it. The ocean was warm against his skin. “Getting a little ambitious, aren’t we?” The Magician had asked, their claws tapping against their chin. “And what would you do when you hold the ocean in the palm of your hand, Asra?”

“I don’t want to,” he’d replied. “I want _it_ to hold _me_.”

This part of the beach was empty, save for a small huddle of what looked like sailors off to a corner of the shore. He could barely make them out, but he cast a quick never-mind-me spell anyway. He didn’t want to draw attention, or look like he was drowning. He tipped his head back, letting the waves brush his white curls.

Maybe he could do this back in Vesuvia too. Or maybe not. He didn’t know if his parents would be alright with that. He also didn’t know how to wrap his head around needing to know that. Or how to wrap his head around _not_ knowing it. The cards were surprisingly unhelpful about it. The High Priestess gently urged him to ask, seek, understand, and The Empress fretted.

Ask _whom_?

“Hey, mom, can you teach me how to be your kid again?”

He was happy, _so_ happy to have them back when he never thought he would, but he wished he knew how to let them know. His mother’s eyes still watered when he offered her a batch of cookies he’d baked, and his father looked a little like he’s drowning when he’d forgotten, _again_ , that he didn’t really need to bargain for his own bread or pore over the shop’s books on his own.

They never pushed, either. He figured they were as lost as he was, when they’d waved him off for this trip, a little uncertain but with no objection. He should write to them soon. They’d love to hear what he’d found. Besides, that was something that family did, was it not? Write to each other from distant places? He hadn’t been on a trip this far and this long in a while.

And even then, Muriel had grumbled something about his unhealthy need to get away. Asra didn’t think that was fair. He’d be going back, anyway. It wasn’t like he was staying here forever.

And neither was Ilya. It’d been two days since he’d put him to sleep at the library. He’d wanted to stay till he woke up, he really did, but he was dead to the world and the twilight hour when the equinox shifts to a moonless night was too potent for him to miss, and so-he’d left, tucking his coat over him where he was passed out with his head on the table. Something in Asra’s heart had squeezed painfully when he saw Ilya cry- big, heaving sobs so loud that he couldn’t hear a thing above it. He couldn’t tell why- didn’t think to ask, but judging by the Princess’ red-rimmed eyes when he saw her later, he’d made a fair enough guess. Asra let his fingers sift through the languid waves. He didn’t want to push Ilya now, not when he was so upset, or start any kind of conversation he wasn’t ready to have.

 _Bullshit, you’re avoiding him._ A voice in his head, sounding a lot like Muriel’s.

_No, I’m not._

_He seems the kind to need answers._

Asra groaned, and then huffed. There need be no answers. It was just a kiss. A simple brush of their lips, and then a nap, their fingers laced with each other’s, him sobbing into Asra’s chest. Small intimacies, a few stolen walks, and soon he would be gone, as Asra himself would too.

_Then why are you avoiding him?_

The magician’s heart fluttered like a bird, frantic wings tapping against his ribcage.

 _Okay?_ Faust poked her head from his scarves, booping his chin affectionately.

“Yeah,” he sighed, tracing her scales with gentle fingers. “Do you like it here?”

She flicked her tongue, tilting her head from side to side.

 _Splash._ Her tail swished across the seawater. _Squeeze a Prince._

“Do you like him?” He asked, before he could stop himself. Faust shot him a knowing, rather reproachful look.

 _Cute._ She slithered down to float beside him. _Kind hands._

“You’re right.” He agreed.

Kind hands. He’d looked so frightened, when he’d tossed away The Hanged Man and fell back against the ground, shaking and panicking. And yet, his hands had looked so firm, so capable as they’d bandaged up the General when Asra had stayed too frozen and uncertain to do anything but watch. Tender as they smoothed up his back and cupped his face, strong and warm as the coat he’d wrapped over him the moment they’d stepped out of the fire’s warmth in the library. The kind of warmth that was drawn from somewhere deep beneath the skin, somewhere Asra wouldn’t mind visiting, or re-visiting- somewhere, he suspected, the prince wore far too easily on his sleeve.

And even if Asra had never enjoyed hard science, never really saw a point to it- it was too unimaginative, too plain and dangerously absolute in its own way-

 _Like a Prince?_ Faust was teasing him now.

“I liked kissing him.” He admitted. He couldn’t lie to her. She’d know anyway. “That’s all I know.”

_“Back so soon, Asra?” The Magician had asked him. “The usual, hm?” Their purple eyes peering uncomfortably into his own. “Seeking out answers to distract yourself from questions?”_

Faust slithered back up to his chest, a steady, comforting weight against the sudden wave of confusion. _Fun to squeeze._ She chimed impishly. Asra laughed. That too. He rode the waves languidly, letting his mind wander away from people and emotions. All in all, this trip had done him well. He’d even managed to snag a few trinkets to gift Muriel and his parents- fresh dyes and brushes, a few charms and a music box he knew his dad would love. He tried to ignore the tugging in his chest- how now that he had places to miss, he felt them curl around his limbs like vices and he couldn’t figure out how he felt about it all sometimes.

Abruptly, Faust dipped back into the water, wiggling a distance away and poking her head up to face him, her eyes shining with excitement.

_Prince!_

She dove down again, swimming ahead of him.

“Faust?” Asra summoned the seawater to surge him closer to her, towards the shore. _Prince_! She insisted again, her head resurfacing to gesture towards the shore. He followed the motion, frowning, and sure enough, he could make out the black of Ilya’s greatcoat among the ragged group of soldiers. What was he doing here?

With a lazy wave of his hand, Asra washed himself up to the sand, Faust wiggling back into his scarves. Oblivious to him, Ilya was standing amidst the circle of sailors, those lovely hands coaxing sweet, melancholy music out of the strings of a rather battered looking vielle. Asra made over to where he stood, casting a quick spell to dry himself off. The sailors were gathered around Ilya in a circle- he looked much the same as he’d left him, only, now that he got closer, the dark circles were steeper against his pale skin, and his auburn hair fell in even untidier waves over his eyes. They watched him, quiet and awed, as the music swelled and swayed with the sea breeze.

Asra was close enough now that he could see Ilya’s long auburn lashes curl downward to sweep his high cheekbones, the way his eyelids fluttered, the steel-soft of his grey eyes. He couldn’t recognize this tune, but it was nothing like the bawdy, raucous sea shanties he’d heard on Mazelinka’s ship. This was gentle, like Ilya’s fingers resting against Asra’s skin, this was soft and eager, and tender and breaking, and it reminded him of when his parents had found him again, shivering in anticipation at the palace gate- when his mom had taken him into her arms, wiping his tears on her still-soft pink scarf, his dad running his fingers through his hair, his voice breaking- “Have you been happy? Have you been safe?”

_Not always happy._

_Not always safe._

He missed them now, all of a sudden. He realized he missed Muriel too, the woodsy scent of his hut and the furs wrapped around them as they sought each other’s warmth when it stormed and snowed. Inexplicably, standing right in front of him, he realized that he was already missing Ilya too.

 _Don’t cry._ Faust licked a tear away from his cheek.

Asra let his nevermind-me spell slip off of him like a sheet.

Just then, Ilya finished his song, ending on a beautifully wavering note before it wafted away into silence, and then the sailors applauded him as he lowered the vielle and gave a gracious, outrageously low bow, shouting exclamations that Asra could not understand, and then their keen eyes landed on him.

“Who- _kid_ \- didn’t see you there!” An old sailor flashed her silver teeth as she smiled at him..

“Asra?” Grey eyes widened hopefully. Asra smiled at him. “Hey, Ilya.”

“Friend of yours, Jul?”

Another wrinkled sailor asked him, her grey brows arching smartly to inspect him.

“Ah-erm-“ Asra caught the uncertainty flashing in Ilya’s eyes before it dissolved into warmth. “Yes, a dear, clever friend of mine. Asra-“

The magician smiled bashfully at their curious gazes. “Zadithi?” A man asked, fixing him with a lilac gaze. Before he could answer, he nodded to himself, and extended his hand. “Want a drink? So your friend could regale us a bit more?”

Asra shook his head, looking up at the rapidly gathering rainclouds. “I’m heading over to the springs,” he said apologetically. “I need to gather indigo salts as soon as this rain breaks.” He half-expected the sailors to regard him with the exasperated skepticism that he had come to expect, but the sailor nodded gravely, murmuring thoughtfully to a companion. “The first rain of the year too- it’ll charge the salts well. Rituals, hm?” He narrowed his eyes.

Asra shifted uncomfortably.

“Ah, a good magician always has his secrets,” Ever the gentleman, Ilya swooped in to save him, with a jab and a charming smile, reading his diffidence. “Would you mind company, then, Asra?” asked the prince, his face lighting up with eagerness. “We could, ah-“ and then the bravado fizzled out, his cheeks pinkening, “gather salts-“

The sailors erupted into laughter.

Blushing in return, Asra nodded. “Sure, if-“ he glanced around at his company, all of whom rushed with assurances in a medley of languages.

“Let’s go then?” Ilya loped up to him, taking his hand just as he did in the library. “Shall- ah-“ he faltered again when his eyes met Asra’s. “Erm- shall we?”

The prince led Asra past the beach, helping him clamber up a cluster of white rocks with an easy, practiced grace, long arms coming down to help Asra whenever his feet slid on the unfamiliar ground.

“I’d found a longer route,” Asra panted, letting Faust slither up ahead of them.

“Roundabout? Past all the way through the docks?” Ilya shook his head. “Less adventurous, that.” He looked back, he caught Asra’s eyes with a knowing, rougish grin. “Er- more scenic, though. Less- ah- much less of a climb.”

The magician laughed in return.

Ilya leaned forward at the sound, and promptly toppled himself over a rock, nearly losing his balance and falling on his face. He steadied himself with gloved hands, blushing to the tips of his ears even as he smiled it off.

_Did I do that to him?_

_Do I have strings around me too, that pull and tug people towards me?_

Before he could entertain that uneasiness, Ilya had hit level ground, and bent down to brace his hands on either side of Asra’s hips, easily picking him up and landing him where his feet sank into deeper, warmer sand.

“Here we are,” Ilya turned him around with a tug of his wrist. “The indigo springs.”

This place too, was empty, save for the two of them. Under the overcast sky, the small cluster of hot springs were deep, rich blue, ancient and ominous as The Magician’s footsteps in their oasis. Asra felt the tug of their magic far before his eyes could take them in- he could feel the sizzle and crackle of energy, curious, but not playful- solemn, but never threatening. Steam rose from them in elegant swirls. Asra felt it wash over him, felt his hair stand on end and his own magic rise and ripple in response. As though summoned, he waded through the sand, but then he paused by the edge, watching the spring turn inkier, the colour rising from the bottom to suffuse the warm water.

“You could get in.” He jumped, turned to see Ilya standing beside him, already shrugging off his coat and laying it on the sand. “Come on,” He unbuttoned his shirt, took off his gloves and unclasped his boots, before he plopped into one of the springs with a splash, Faust tumbling in after him. Asra followed suit, laying his scarves under the weight of Julian’s coat before he took off his tunic and dipped into the spring. He felt the crunch of salts beneath his feet, steadier than sand but never sharp enough to prick. Asra sighed. This was so different from the sea, so much more welcoming. He felt the steam undo the tension in his muscles, and his magic light up and luxuriate.

 _Wow._ Faust reclined on the surface, sneaking tail-boops at Ilya.

“Wow,” Asra echoed, sighing as he leaned against the edge, letting the spring work its way through him, washing him, clearing his head, easing the tight knot at the pit of his stomach that he had been trying very, _very_ hard to ignore. 

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Ilya loped his arms around the spring’s edge, flexing his fingers and toes, dipping his auburn head into the water to resurface again with a grin. “It’s a shame that we’re alone- the crowd comes in here after sunset, when the water shines like sapphire.” He shook his head like a dog, his grin a little shy of frantic- it alarmed Asra.

_Seeking answers, avoiding questions._

“You’d be surprised to hear the kind of stories people tell beneath the stars, when the salts wash over them-ah! I-I-“ He didn’t wait to finish his own sentence, or to hear Asra cut in about how much _he_ preferred that they were alone, before he dove down again, resurfacing with his big palms spilling over with clumps of indigo salts. “Here we are!”

There was something wrong with him, Asra decided. Something he hadn’t noticed on the hike here, carried away as he got with his rambling, excited tour-guiding. But now, still as they were and seperated by nothing more than a spring’s worth of blue water, Ilya’s excitement looked a lot more like desperation. He never did ask about what had happened with his sister, if he was feeling any better now, and if they’d made up.

“Asra?”

Ilya’s smile faltered, a few grains of salt rolling down his wrist into the water. Asra shook his head, pushing the thought away for the moment, and he waded up to take a closer look. Against Ilya’s pale, pale skin, the salts glowed electric, sizzling with power, the crystals splitting into smaller, shinier shards. They smelt of steam, and the sea. When Ilya dropped the salts into his outstretched palm, he could feel his hair fluff up, his aura brighten, and the colours around them take on a sharper hue. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Ilya’s voice echoed his own reverence.

“And not to mention-“ The prince settled back against the edge of the spring. “Healthiest salts you’d ever find- why, even royalty could ask for no better.”

Asra’s lips twitched. “You’d know.” He shot back. “ _You’re_ royalty.”

There was a pause, long enough to make Asra tear his eyes away from the salts in his hand to look up at the prince. Ilya’s smile had fallen away entirely, gray eyes as clouded as the sky above them. “I ah-“ he shook his head ruefully, and let out a fractured laugh. “I suppose I am.”

Asra remembered what the cards had told him when he had read them for Ilya back at the gazebo.

_A home has been outgrown._

_An impossible choice._

He didn’t _want_ to be royalty.

Asra felt his heart go out to the prince. There were far worse fates in this world, he knew that. Hell, he’s _lived_ that, and he wouldn’t trade the comfort and love and the _family_ he has for anything in his awful, hungry past, but-

But the tiny, uncomfortably prickly little commitments were strings so sharp that on the darkest, most hopeless nights, he felt like he didn’t deserve to have people if he couldn’t give himself to them. He imagined those strings being heavier, tighter, being saddled with the weight of a kingdom and a crown when all he wanted to do was to learn to be a person, and he let the salts slip away from his fingers and laid his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. The prince leaned into the touch, a bright flush already spreading down his neck, but instead of speaking, he wound long arms around Asra’s waist and pulled him to his chest. “I’ve missed you, my dear.” Auburn hair tickled Asra’s cheek. There, the small voice in his head again, you’ve tied yourself to someone else. But he found he couldn’t lie, not now, not when he could hear how Ilya’s heart stuttered and sped as he lay his cheek against his chest. “I’ve missed you too.” His own voice sounded a lot less ragged than Ilya’s.

Two days. Two days, without the handsome, clever companion who smelt like spicy musk and sleep and tasted like coffee. It was alright to miss someone, Asra decided. There was nothing _inherent_ in missing him, no intent in it.

Eventually, Ilya released him, shifting a little awkwardly in the water. “Uh- you have?”

Asra nodded, splashing him in reprimand. Then he dove down into the water, scooping out handfuls of the salts again. Beneath the surface, the salts dazzled him, shining so bright that he had to shut his eyes and open them inch by inch. It looked vaster than it should be, and for a moment, Asra wondered if he’d inadvertently opened a portal and slipped back into the realms, but suddenly, so quickly that he startled, Ilya was there, inches from his face. Asra paddled back a little to let him lean forward, propelling himself off the edge of the spring. It was far too deep for them to swim, properly, but Asra pushed a current towards him anyway, conjuring it with a strength that knocked Ilya back by a foot, his head breaking the surface, laughing and gasping.

When Asra came back up with more handfuls of salt, Ilya was sputtering through the springwater in his mouth. “You p-pack a punch,” he coughed. “Uh- quite a punch,” he was still laughing, thumping his chest. Asra smiled a little smugly, and sauntered backwards. “Magic _does_ give me an edge. Especially when I have these to draw upon.” He held up the salts.

And just like that, Ilya looked uneasy again, squirming enough to make the water ripple around them. “Erm- they’re great for ah- circulation.” Asra blinked. “Oh?” 

“Of the blood, you see?” Ilya gestured enthusiastically, flailing his arms as though tracing a diagram in the thin air. “When blood and air flows smoothly through the body, we ah, tend to feel better, more rejuvenated, think clearer, sleep better- much like a massage, in principle, do you, do you see?”

“We use them for more meditative rituals,” Asra thoughtfully twirled the salt crystals in his palm. “Charged as they are now, when you power them with the right spells, indigo salts can open the mind into deep trance like states- the more fluid your mind feels, the better magic like mine responds-“ he waved his fingers in the air to illustrate, and the water rippled lightly, only lightly, but it was enough to make Ilya shriek and jump back up from the spring. Asra giggled, and lowered his hand apologetically. If he weren’t so worn out from the ritual earlier, he could have enchanted the springwater into blue liquid-fingers. He remembered Ilya’s genuine horror at The Hanged Man.

Asra liked showing off, but he didn’t want to scare anyone to the point of putting them off magic. That was the kind of magician he’d sworn he’d never be, the kind of person he never wanted to be, who used his strength to bully and terrify.

And though Ilya’s twitchiness was entertaining, but that’s as far as he’d push him. “I won’t do it again,” he promised. “Not without asking you first.” Ilya slid back into the water soon enough, mollified. “I’m sorry, Asra,” the prince looked sheepish. “I uh- don’t want you to feel like you aren’t welcome, but-“

Asra laughed, and waved his hand. “No, it’s okay. I know a lot of people who are uneasy around magic,” he smiled wryly. “It’s gotten me through a few sticky spots too.”

_On the wharf. Among other hungry children. Fishing out a scrap of meat or bone or bread before the seagulls or the stray dogs could find it and not having to answer for it. To be small in a hostile world and to make sure the cruelty they deal isn’t the killing kind._

_Witch. Thief. Street rat. Words roll off quicker than blows, and they’re easier to tune out when you pretend you’re somewhere else, with somebody else, and they last far shorter than the hunger does._

“Is that a story I sense?” Ilya’s face lit up, enchanted. Asra twitched. “Well, yeah, but not the happiest kind.”

The prince dropped his goofy grin, his brow crinkling in concern. “Her Highness- Nadia, spoke told us about Vesuvia. About er-”

“About my parents?” Asra sighed. He supposed it was fair, though now he felt a little less like he owed Lady Satrinava an apology for having inadvertently blown her cover.

“Asra,” Ilya surged forward with the sheer power of his earnestness, taking the magician’s hand in his, their palms crushing the salt crystals between them. “I-uh- I’m really-“

_Sorry._

He knew the pity was coming. He braced himself for it, the look the butchers and bakers and witches of Vesuvia landed him with, the look they gave him in whichever land he went to where the incense loosened his tongue enough for the story to slip out of his mouth in a language not his own. But Ilya swallowed hard, and when Asra met his eyes, they were twin grey flames.

“- _Furious.”_ The prince took his other hand, long fingers pressing into his, and Asra fought the urge to look away, to lighten the load of that intensity. “It’s utterly, _horribly,_ disgustingly, _wrong_ , what happened to them, just-“ he cursed, in a sharp, distant, biting tongue- “that lily-livered, dastardly, _scoundrel_ of a Countex-“ he released Asra’s hands to take a deep breath, as though he was stopping himself from launching at the spectre of Vulgora deep in Asra’s very memory. “That goddamed _coward,_ to have the _gall,_ the very _gall_ -“ another tearing remark in another language- “tear _families_ apart, on _purpose-_ “

With every angry word from the prince, something wound tight in Asra’s chest, something as old as the day his mom and dad had kissed him goodbye and disappeared, as old as they day he’d waited by the window till the sun fell and the day turned to night and into another day and again, something that lived in the way his heart wrenched at the mention of homes and families, half- buried in fear and the other half in the wonder he’d kept close and safe to protect himself- began to unravel, making his heart jump to his throat and tears flood his eyes, though he couldn’t cry.

He soaked up Ilya’s righteous rage as if it were his own- and it _was_ , he realized. He was _angry. Angry_ at the years he’d lost, angry at having had to starve and fight and steal, angry at the way the city was mean and cruel and poor under a tyrant’s rule, angry for the broken roads and the children who called him evil things, angry that now, now when he had everything back, he sometimes looked at his parents, his mind lagging a moment behind him, wondering who they are, that he couldn’t get used to it, that he was scared _of_ getting used to it.

He’d papered over those cracks, with stories about how the stars looked in the seawater and how the wind had rocked them to sleep and how they had spent evenings warm in Muriel’s hut. But he remembered the feeling that reared its head when the Countex would soar through the streets on their gilded carriage, waving their red-gloved hands at the helm of a victory parade, roaring out commands for their troops to run ragged drills until they dropped dead on their feet-

“They _were_ a coward.” He said quietly, his voice sounding too big and too small at the same time. “A bully.” He took Ilya’s hands again, amethyst eyes meeting deep grey, and the prince gripped him back with as much passion, and the gesture felt more intimate than the kiss they had shared. “Ugly and mean and cruel. They ruined everything, Ilya. Crumpled up the city and laid it to waste.”

“If I were there-“ the prince dropped his grip. “I wish I could have _pummeled_ them-“ he drove his hand into the water, the punch punctuating his words with a resounding splash.

“Kicked them in the belly,” Ilya drove his fist into his palm.

“Ripped their heart out-“ Asra added gleefully.

“Looked them in the eyes and told them _just_ how _pathetic_ , how _vile_ and bloody _miserable_ they were.”

Asra threw his arms around Ilya, the wicked grin on his face breaking and his breath hitching in a single sob. He could feel the prince lift him clean off the ground, his feet hovering over the spring’s bed. “Thank you, Ilya” he whispered fervently.

_For letting me feel it._

_For teasing out the sharp edges I’ve tried so hard not to become._

_For making them look the way you did- like something allowed to be felt._

“Thank you,” He said again.

“What for?” Ilya did not let him go.

Asra caught his breath, and exhaled, slowly, loosening his grip and landing gently back down. Affectionately, he brushed a long auburn curl off Ilya’s forehead, not missing the way his eyes fluttered shut. “For missing me with the pity.”

Ilya opened his eyes, his smile soft and sad. Ilya had lost his family too. And unlike Asra, Ilya hadn’t ever gotten them back.

“Anytime, my dear.”

_My dear._

Asra felt his cheeks heat up. Did words of endearment roll off his tongue so easily? Words themselves sounded strong and beautiful when Ilya spoke them. The prince was blushing too, and Asra laid his palm against his cheek, watching in fascination as the damp, pale skin turned redder where he touched it.

“Good for the circulation, huh?” He asked mischievously.

Turning crimson, Ilya dropped his gaze, and then met it again, looking up at him from beneath auburn lashes. “Uh- y-y-“ he breathed deep, and Asra did not take away his hand until Ilya could find his words again. “Y-you’re welcome t-to see for yourself, darling. We might chance upon- ah, a _deep trance state_ , if- if we play our cards right,” Asra’s eyebrows shot up.

Was he saying what he thought he was saying?

“Erm- so to speak.”

He burst into giggles, dropping his hand from Ilya’s face, hopelessly endeared. “Now that I uh, have a magician on my hands-“ Ilya paused- “er- not like _that-_ “ he flailed his arms weakly.

Asra took the bait, lacing their fingers together, the bronze of his skin against the paper pale of Ilya’s. “Yes?”

“I-“ Ilya fumbled for a moment, before throwing him that charming, cheeky grin. “I have a trick to show you-“ Letting go, he stood back with a flourish, wiggling his fingers . “Close your eyes, Asra-“

He obliged.

“And open your palm-“

Asra startled, his eyes opening in surprise.

“An egg?” Bewildered, he held it up to the prince, who was still grinning, from ear to ear.

“Where did you-“

“A great magician must always have his secrets.” He repeated, maddeningly cheeky. “But the _real_ magic-“ he gently picked the egg from Asra’s hand, and dropped it unceremoniously into the hot springwater- “lies in the cooking.”

*

It wasn’t bad at all, Asra decided, as a few minutes later, they sat side by side at the edge of the springs, eating the eggs that Ilya cooked up in the spring (inexplicably, the prince had a whole stash in his greatcoat). It was _far_ from the strangest thing that he’d eaten. The salts had soaked through to the hardboiled egg, turning the yolk bright blue- but that only made it all the more appealing to him. “It’s never occurred to me to cook an egg in a hot spring.”

“What is it that you’d said the other day?” Ilya pointlessly shook off damp sand from his drenched pants. “That magic is uh, a means of altering our surroundings to meet our needs, yes?”

Asra nodded.

“I don’t think any differently of science.” The prince let another egg sizzle in the water. “Cooking is a science- don’t you think? Cause-“ he peeled the eggshells with practiced fingers, and Asra balanced it in his hands. “And effects. Method.”

The magician shrugged. “Too many rules for my taste.”

“And magic uh, magic leaves too much to chance.”

Asra frowned, absently trailing his toes in the water. “Doesn’t science have an element of chance?”

_Too much of it, he thought. Too many finicky variables to ever truly be worth the trouble-to follow all the rules, only to be unable to alter what you have at the end of it._

“And magic has method. You’ve said so yourself. And rules.”

The magician bit his lip. “Ours are less absolute.”

_And the ones that aren’t- you can beg and plead and barter your way around._

_And if all else fails, there’s a price, always, always a price you could pay if you get desperate enough._

He shuddered, wondering if that were any better.

“And we leave less to chance.”

Asra had nothing to say to that. A wound like the General’s would have taken quite a bit of magical energy to heal. And Ilya had only looked a little sweaty, and a lot satisfied, when he had patched him up.

There was something to it, he supposed, to take the world as it were, by its natural limitations, and to give yourself to it, to do good by it- protect and help and abide by it. A resignation, but one that came with a great deal of strength.

It wasn’t any wonder that The Hanged Man wished to speak to him.

Commitment, too. It left a bad taste in his own mouth- but the more he puzzled it out, the clearer it became. Ilya needed independence, valued freedom as much as himself did, but he also needed something, someone, to devote himself to. 

It unsettled Asra, more than it excited him.

He knew better than to say it out loud, but he thought that Ilya would make a good king. Kind, righteous, giving- the very antithesis of everything that Vulgora had been.

Another thought occurred to him. “My parents come from Zadith- a place where magic and science are equally revered. And Alchemy is the closest to hard science as magic can get- Mom and Dad operate their magic by measures and designs-“ he watched Ilya wrap up the indigo salts in Asra’s scarf, tying up an elaborate, ornate knot , as though he was gifting it to a visiting dignitary. “It’s not _my_ kind of magic, but maybe,” he slung his loaded scarf over his shoulder, called out to Faust who was splashing happily in another nearby spring. “Maybe my work and yours could co-exist too.”

Clever, contemplative grey eyes met his own. Ilya was listening with rapt attention.

“Maybe the um, better circulation has something to do with my lucid dreams-“ he held up his scarf-bag of salts, and Ilya regarded it seriously.

“It wouldn’t be impossible,” said the prince. “Cause and effect, method and chance, the ah, overlaps are there, aren’t they?” Ilya inched closer now, a tentative hand brushing lightly through Asra’s hair. He was silent for a while more, his eyes searching the magician’s face, still tentative, still slow, but the awkwardness replaced with something like devotion. Asra squirmed, relishing it and yet, caught off his guard. It took so little for Ilya to look at him like that.

He seemed to be gathering his words again, taking short, quick breaths, and Asra let his hands linger in his hair, a long finger tracing over his browbone. He knew if he pressed against him, he could feel the prince’s heart pounding up a storm. “Cause and effect, method and chance-“ Ilya’s hands came down to cradle Asra’s cheek. “I wonder what science, what magic I have to thank for you, my dear.”

Asra smiled against Ilya’s touch, and that very gesture seemed to knock the prince off his feet. His eyes were fluttering- shy and handsome and chock-full of sappy poetry- blushing and tender and sweet- the magician’s heart clenched.

Oh, Asra could just kiss him.

And he did.

They met each other halfway, Asra knocking the prince on to his back on the sand, his lips chasing Ilya’s, his hands roaming curiously over the planes of his tall body. Ilya’s arms pulled the magician closer, making a sound of assent when Asra curled his fingers into his auburn hair, their damp skin and wet clothes making them slip and slide. The prince was pliant in his arms, pliant and needing and giving, so giving, chasing him desperately as he moved and shifted, whimpering when his fingers trailed lightly down his chest. All at once, like a stretched string snapping, the clouds above broke into a steady rain.

They parted, only for a moment, before Ilya stood up, pulling Asra upright and into another kiss, awkwardly postured and messy, more teeth than tongue but still so giving, folding over where Asra stood on tiptoe, the rain drenching them both until their teeth were chattering too much to keep going. Asra broke the kiss, amused, his lips spit slick and bronze skin blushed.

He instinctively conjured up a cloud of warm air to shield them from the downpour, and for once, the prince did not flinch back. In fact, Asra wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t noticed it at all, with the way he feverishly took the magician’s face in his hands again, the look in his eyes heavier than his body had felt when it was pressed up against Asra’s.

“It’s the first rain of the year,” he reached down to press his lips against Asra’s, softly, tenderly, like he couldn’t help it. “Th-the elders say that they mean something special- the one you kiss when the first rain falls.”  
“What does it mean?” Asra was curious. He loved these little legends, folk beliefs that almost always had an undercurrent of magic that he could tease out from within them.

Ilya carded his hands through the magician’s hair again. “It means that I’ll find you again for the next one.”

_Cause and effect, method and chance, magic and science._

Ilya dives so hard, so fast, drowns in what Asra barely dips his toes in, buries in his skin what Asra barely brushes upon.

All of a sudden, Asra felt afraid. Small, and afraid. Tethered in a way that he didn’t know if he liked.

“A-are you alright?” Ilya was on it at once, mumbling and half-apologizing.

The magician caught his wrist before he could pull away, giving him a tiny, nervous smile.

“That’s nice, Ilya.” He said, trying to keep his voice from wobbling. “Let’s go back to the castle now, hm?”

*

Julian’s head was buzzing all the way back to the castle- so much that he didn’t notice that Asra’s magic had dried him off by the time he was about to stagger up the steps back into the library where he’d spent the last two days tunneling through basic Prakran and then the intermediate, and then a volume on Vesuvian leech markets that made him think of Asra and of how he wasn’t there when he had woken up, and how he shouldn’t have wanted him to be there at all, with a punishing vengeance because he knows he deserves to be left behind the way Pasha said that he was about to leave _her_ behind after he’d _promised_ her-

She hadn’t spoken to him, and he didn’t think she wanted to see him at all, wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see him again. It was only when the castle walls had closed too tight around him and his insides had thrummed with manic energy, his father’s face staring reproachfully from the portrait in the library, that he’d made out of the castle, shushing the guard who’d tried to stop him from climbing down through the window and rushing out to the deserted side of the beach- somewhere he could make himself more _useful_ , only to find Asra, only to find him and-

Had he ruined it again? He couldn’t say for sure. It’d be well within reason if he did, he hadn’t missed the way Asra’s smile had trembled there at the end, how strangely quiet he was on their walk here, no matter how much he had tried to fill the silence with jokes and anecdotes. Julian wanted to see him again and set things right. His lips still tingled from Asra’s kisses, his body so wound up, his mind so disheveled that he nearly banged into a wall or seven before Lilinka caught him by the library, eased him into a hug instead of scolding him and let him cry pathetically into her scarf. “Talk to Pasha,” she’d said, not unkindly. “You’re doing neither of yourselves a favor by running away.”

Damn it all. Another mistake. How is it that every time he tried to fix something, render himself with some halfway decent purpose, he manages to achieve the opposite?

He was wringing his hands by the time he rushed into the dining hall on wobbly feet, a few servants squeaking apologies and inquiries at his obvious distress. He stopped short at the sight of his sister, lost for words, and thrown off his groove. He wasn’t expecting her to have company.

Pasha was sat the table, halfway through a pint of beer that Julian was fairly certain wasn’t her first for the night, across from the General, and Nadia, a nearly-drained bottle of red wine between them. The General’s dogs were running up and down the length of the room, sneaking scraps from the plate of bite-sized fried fish on the table. Lucio was healing well, he noted- a crutch leaned against his chair and the bandages around his leg the only indication that he’d been injured he looked a lot better, though his face was already reddening from the wine. They’d been deep in animated conversation, falling silent when Julian stormed in.

Lucio bowed from where he sat, and then topped up his glass and raised it in a toast. “Haven’t seen you in a bit here, Jules.”

Pasha pointedly took a long, big gulp from her pint, raising a red eyebrow, daring Julian to object.

“Er- you shouldn’t be walking around, Lucio.” He said to the General instead.

Lucio rolled his eyes and downed his glass in one go. “Ugh. I was getting so _bored_ cooped up in there.” He tossed another piece of fish to the dogs. “And my babies were getting _so_ antsy.” He gave him a huge grin, kicking out another chair with his good leg. “Join us?”

Mercifully reading the room, Nadia rose to curtsy the prince, and laid a hand on Lucio’s arm. The General turned to her in an instant, completely lost to the rest of the room. Even in his state, Julian had to bite back an incredulous laugh.

Lucio had turned to her with all the solemn obedience of his troops marching to his own commands at the Royal Parades. It seemed as though he had fallen to attention the moment Nadia had touched him.

_Ma’am, yes ma’am._

“Lucio,” she smiled down at him, “shall we- take this outside?”

“Out-“ Lucio blinked, and then he was up too quick, wincing from the pain as he gathered his crutch. He motioned at a servant to pick up the bottle and glasses, and held out his golden arm for Nadia to take. “Yeah, Noddy,” he drew himself up as much as his injured leg could allow him, “Let’s.”

Julian and Pasha watched them go, Nadia steadying them both with her arm, and the dogs bounding after them. There was fervent curiosity in Pasha’s blue eyes, and a secretive, mischievous smile on her face. She turned to her brother on instinct to spill the gossip she’d gathered, only for her face to fall, as though remembering the terms they were on. She went back to her drink, but didn’t object, or look up, when Julian sat down before her and picked at the plate of food that a servant had set before him.

Pasha finished her pint, and motioned over to a servant to have it filled again.

Julian sighed. “Pasha,” he reached out to take her hand, flinched when she drew it out of his reach. “That’s enough.” He told her firmly. On speaking terms or not, he wasn’t going to let her drink herself out of anger.

His sister shrugged, propping her legs up, her skirts trailing the ground carelessly.

“Pasha, I mean it.” She rolled her eyes and set down the pint. “I’m old enough to drink.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“Old _enough_ to drink.” She blew her firey curls out of her face to glare at her brother.

Julian pushed his plate aside. “I won’t have you drinking when you’re upset-“

“ _Don’t_ tell me what to do.” She snapped. “And who told you I’m upset. I’m having a drink. It’s been a long day. Throw me to the dungeons.”

“Pasha!” Julian rose, and his sister did too, the fire in her eyes making up for the difference in their heights. “If you’re upset with me, take it out on me- don’t do this to yourself.”

“This isn’t about _you_!” She didn’t shout, but she was loud enough that her voice rang through the hall. “Not everything is about you, Ilya!”

Julian deflated, the spark of anger receding.

Here he was, upsetting her when he was supposed to be apologizing, ruining things when he should be patching them up. He sank back down to his chair. “Please, Pasha.”

The princess huffed out an exasperated breath. Then she pushed her pint towards her brother. Julian stared at her, puzzled.

“Ugh. Have a drink.” She crossed her arms. “You look like you need it.”

She waved down a servant who rushed forward with a pitcher of the drink. Julian obliged. Beer wasn’t remotely the drink of royalty, but the day she’d turned sixteen, Pasha had partied so hard with Mazelinka’s crew that she’d woken up the next day with a thumping hangover and an irrevocable taste for it.

Julian took a gulp of the pint, feeling it warm him from the inside, ease the jitters, however marginally. But maybe that was from the softening in Pasha’s countenance.

“Where’ve you been?” She asked him, and then raised a hand before he could answer.

“Lemme guess. In the library, tormenting yourself and sobbing into a treatise on Zadithi leeches, barely eating whatever the servants laid out for you there and running off to the beach to wallow a little more. That right?”

She had her chin in her palm, blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

“…No.”

Pasha raised her eyebrows.

“…Vesuvian leeches, actually.”

The princess threw her head back and laughed, shaking her head so her curls rippled like a waterfall. Julian couldn’t help but join in with a nervous chuckle of his own. His eyes stung with tears again.

He missed Pasha so much. He was about to miss her even more.

“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.” She stood up, kicked off her shoes and climbed over the table to hop down on to the chair next to her brother’s. She clinked her fresh pint against his. “Vesuvian leeches huh?” Her lips curled up into that feline smirk. “And what do leeches like _in Vesuvia?_ ”

“Er-“

She didn’t wait for him to answer. “I hear that _that’s_ not the only Vesuvian interest of yours.”

Julian choked on his drink. He could’ve _sworn_ they were discreet- the guards, the sailors, _Lucio_ certainly wouldn’t have noticed-

And Pasha was laughing again, smacking the back of his head. “I have my sources.” She said primly, gesturing around the hall with the drink in her hands. “Eyes and ears, everywhere.”

“So what’ve you been doing?” She pressed. “What’s been going on with you and Asra?”

A drink, and information. In other words, a peace offering he’d be horribly foolish not to take. Ilya rushed to narrate it, their meetings and their long walks, their brief history, leaving out the frantic kissing and- everything else on the sand- but she seemed to have caught on anyway.

By the end of it, Julian felt a little silly. A couple of days, and he throws himself without asking Asra what he wanted- offering him the wrong things- he must have been so spooked, and-

“I kissed him in the first rain,” said Julian, pained.

Pasha gasped, covering her mouth her hand. “ _Really?”_ Her legs kicked together from beneath the table. “Ilya, you sap.” Then she took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “He’s very cute, I’ll give you _that_ \- but-“

“I’m ah, moving too fast, I know.”

Pasha clicked her tongue. “But that’s just you, isn’t it? Jumping into things, running yourself ragged for everybody else, and then tearing yourself up when you slip up.” She shook her head.

“I kissed him in the first rain without asking him if he knew what it meant. I _weighed_ him down-“

“Do you like him?”

Julian felt silent, and his sister leaned closer, searching his face. Throat closing, Julian nodded.

“I don’t know what he wants- d-didn’t _ask-_ “

The princess scoffed. “Well if you don’t know, he didn’t tell you.” Julian flinched a little, and Pasha lay her hand on his. “If you know what _you_ want, d’you think he can give you that?”

“It’s not about-“

“It _is._ ” Pasha set down her drink, pouting. “I don’t get it, Ilya.” She grumbled. “You make everything about yourself, except yourself. Your job isn’t to pull answers out of _him,_ it’s to figure out what _you_ want, and see if you can find it with him.”

“He’s not obliged to-“

“No, he isn’t.” She agreed easily. “You keep assuming that people can’t do what they want to do. You’re not King yet, Ilya, and even if you were, that’s not the King you’d be. People around you have free will, you know. If you were weighing him down, he’d leave.” And then, a touch quieter- “and if I couldn’t handle the truth when you tell it to me, I’ll deal with it myself. It’s not your place to decide that we’re helpless.”

In lieu of answering, Julian wrapped his arms around his sister, sighing against her head. She tensed for a second, and reciprocated, soft, strong arms gently patting his back. “I’m sorry, Pasha.” He sniffled. “I d-don’t think you’re helpless. I think you’re very strong, and very, very smart, and I think you’ll make a _legend_ of an admiral, and I shouldn’t have kept things from you.”

Pasha laughed, a wet little sound. “I forgive you.” She pulled away, blinking off tears of her own, and leaned up to kiss her brother on the cheek. “Ugh. I can’t ever be mad at you for long, you’re such a kicked puppy when you’re sad. And-“ she looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry too.” She said glumly. “For blowing up like that.”

“No, no, no,” he rushed to assure her. “I deserved it. Worse, even.”

Pasha snorted, turning back to her drink. “I didn’t mean it when you said you didn’t care about me. I was mad, and I wanted you to hurt.”

“That’s fair. I was a scoundrel. And I _do_ care about you.” He tugged at her sleeve to turn her to face him again. “I’ll miss you, Pasha.” He kissed her curly head, smelling, as always, of seaweed and sweat. “I’ll miss you _so_ much, and I’ll never stop thinking of you, never stop _writing_ to you-“

“I’ll miss you too.” The princess said. “But-“ She gripped her brother’s shoulders. “I’ll be fine. I’ve thought about it, and really- long as you write to me, I’ll be fine. It’s only a couple years, right?”

Julian tried not to wince. It wouldn’t be a lie if he nodded. So he did.

“By the time you come back, _I’ll_ be off on _my_ adventures. And you’ll wait for _me_ to come home from where I’m commanding the Black Sails over the Seven Seas.”

“I don’t doubt it, dearest. I’ll cry into my pillow every night.”

Pasha rolled her eyes. “I mean it. What’s a couple years away when we have the rest of our lives to spend as King and Admiral- side by side, no?”

Julian’s throat closed in again. He could see the glint in his sister’s eyes- she was talking herself up, willing herself to power through the hurt she felt to find something to look forward to.

He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ not give her what she needs.

“Right, Ilya?” Julian forced himself to meet her wide blue eyes. “Just a couple years, right?”

“R-right, Pasha.” He felt something in his chest scrape at an empty space. “King and Admiral. Side by side. Just a couple years.” He parroted, hoping to high heavens and the seven seas that his voice didn’t crack or his uncertainty show.

She seemed to take it, because she crushed him in another hug and shoved his plate pointedly towards him.

Julian felt something draw and pull around his neck. The raven’s voice in his ear again.

_Let go, Julian._

He couldn’t.

Even if he died, even if it killed him, he couldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blushy, angsty messes smh. Forgive me for how long and exhausting this is. I couldn't help it, really.  
> Could you tell Portia's my favorite?
> 
> Also lmk if you'd like a Lucio/Nadia spinoff one shot or something from this AU. I'll be slow in the writing, but I'm such a huge simp for both of them that I'll make it happen
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @atypicalacademic

**Author's Note:**

> I will never get tired of writing AUs. Ever. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Nix Hydra. Thank you, Nix Hydra.
> 
> Title taken from, "Mystery of Love," by Sufjan Stevens.


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